Thirteen
by MadlyMagical
Summary: To rage she fell into a deep pit of darkness. To sorrow she spilled blood of judgement. pain. To love, she devoted herself to him. Because she's nothing now without him. Warning: Contains mature sadism


_A/N: Whoa there. This story, by far, is the darkest I've ever written. This is even sicker than my first story and that was saying a lot. As for the warning, this story contains non-explicit sadism but it might still be too scary for some people. There are also mentions of sex here, not graphic of course (or otherwise I'd put it as an M story). And it's maybe a bit confusing. Well yeah. Go on, read and review._

_Disclaimer: Percy Jackson world is Rick Riordan's_

* * *

_Him._

The first time she saw him was, when he found her under the stairs of cabin thirteen.

He was walking peacefully, sword hung on his hip. She was gripping a dagger, hiding in the shadows. He was just enjoying the world while she was cursing the wind, letting her own blood fell to the green grass.

She loves the thirteenth cabin, where she could just curl, and cry, and nobody would know she was there, or bother to come near her. She's a freak, an outcast. Se yearns for concern, but build a wall around her in case she got hurt.

_What's wrong?_

Her eyes rose, meeting his concerned eyes.

She had waited for someone to break the wall. Someone who cares- not just when they needed her. Someone who wanted a born freak to be their friend.

_What'swrongwhat'swrongwhat'swrongwhat'swrong_

No one would ever guessed how much those two words changed her life.

_[There goes her sob-story.]_

She confessed about her hatred to life, the rocky road of being a hybrid. Half god-half mortal. The nights she stayed wide awake, afraid of her own weakness. The laughter of harassment, when she fell, fell, and fell deeper. The uncaring whispers that tortures her every cold, heartless days.

All that happened in her head. And he just took her into his arms.

_[Warm.]_

He said he was also a freak. Nobody wants him. Afraid, scared.

But she didn't.

And as time goes, she clung her hopes onto him, taking deep breaths before she trained, ignoring the words torture from the others. He would take her hand into his, whispering soothing words.

At nights, they would met under the stairs where they first met, and he would tell a story of his childhood, or his dead sister, or the Titan War... anything.

One starry night, he mumbled a children's song, so simple, yet describes what he feels perfectly.

_"My Bonnie is over the ocean, my Bonnie is over the sea..."_

And she'd turn at him, asking, _"Your sister?"_

_"Yes,"_

She loves him. Deeper than friendship. And definitely more than romantic love. Months passed by, green grass turned into yellow. They were always together. Two freaks who found what they seek for in each other. A friend, a helper, a joy of life.

That was, until she lost him.

* * *

_Her_

The first time she saw her was, when she stood over his body.

His lifeless body.

She was pretty, tanned, athletic, and every other thing a god's offspring should be. That, and the fact they were at the middle of a war, reminds her of a statue of the girl's mother.

_[Strong. Warlike.]_

Her eyes drifted off from the girl to the body below her. A bloody body with a deep wound on his stomach, lying face down.

Her only friend, her only joy.

_[Is dead.]_

Sorrow. Broken. Rage.

Broken. Rage.

_Rage._

It filled her veins with venom, as deadly as a snake's fang. Her hand, which gripped her dagger, shook so badly, surging with not only her pain and adrenaline, but also his father's grief of losing his only son.

At fighting classes, she was always the worst. Name it. Javelin throwing, spear, sword, archery.

Except knife throwing.

_"Let me teach you... you can't go to battlefield if you couldn't wield any weapons,"_

_She scowled at his grinning form. "Okay Sherlock, now what is this epic weapon class?"_

_"Knife throwing,"_

She threw her dagger with full force at the girl's back. It dug so deep, deeper than the knife on the training dummy last summer, and knifes and daggers before it. The girl yelped with pain as the blade planted itself on her lower back, and gasped when a midget threw herself at her with such a force she face-planted so hard to the dirt.

She was always the smartest, quickest, and wittiest girl on the class. She never lets anyone wins against her. But something about the short girl was definitely weird, _sick _even. She was forcefully turned to her back, and screamed when the knife dug deeper into her back. The midget, at least five inches shorter than her, took a bronze dagger from her belt, and smiled.

_"Looks like you've got no choice, smart-eye,"_

She fought against the midget's weight. Surely it wouldn't be so hard, she thought. But how wrong she is when the girl pinned herself harder, gripping her wrists until she couldn't feel her panted, kicked, and wriggled, but yelped when the girl pressed her dagger on her cheek- not deep enough to fatally wound, but deep enough to break her flesh- and drag it down to her neck, shoulder, and up to her pinned arm.

She dug deeper at her wrist. She whimpered in pain, brain fuzzy, unusually refusing to work. But _no, _she wouldn't care because she continued on, dragging the blade to her other arm, producing blood all the way.

She noticed her eyes, so blood-lustful, so pained, and she understood why.

She had killed a boy before, planting her arrow on his stomach. He was a great fighter, and she noticed his worried look on the small girl' way all the time. That was what distracted him, and got him killed.

The dagger went to her cheek again, and drag up until it was below her eyes. Her sadistic smile is gone, replaced by a tear rolling down on her dirty cheek. That was when realization hit her hard on her head.

_"...bring back my Bonnie to me,"_

Blackness.

* * *

It was over.

Evil has lost, and the good won all over again.

_[No happy ever after for you, unfortunately.]_

His clothes were always dirty, but not this dirty. Blood , sweat, and dirt bundled, creating an unpleasant smell.

His hair was always messy, but not I've-been-stepped-by-a-thousand-feet mess. It was, literally, being stepped by a thousand feet.

If he was there and he looked at himself, he would shudder and playfully poking her with the dirt. Then she would scowl. He would smile. And they would laugh together.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her mind trying to block his laughing form and try to replace it with the reality. His dead form.

She felt the slimy ball in her hand getting heavier, and gripped it tighter. She ran her hand on his hair, trying to get it back to his usual mess. She failed.

Grief hit her heart on full force at the moment, and she dropped to her knees, burying her face to his chest, and sobbed.

_[Thirteen months after she met him, was the day he died.]_

_[Because of her.]_

* * *

The jelly-like ball dropped from her opened palm. Grey orbs, that were once full of life, stared blankly on the evening sky.

* * *

_Them_

The first time she met each of them, was thirteen days before they died.

Her, with shower of golden ringlets around her shoulders, _[once bright.]_lifeless eyes, with thirteen gashes across her stomach.

Him, with pencil between his teeth, notebook always on pocket. Without any fights, he gave up his life to a piece of dark blade.

Her, with dark, straight hair and calculating eyes, actually was... _fond_ of the same gender. Half naked, wrist tied to the bedpost.

_[She's doing this for him... for him always.]_

These hers and those hims. All made no sense to the investigators. All motherless, all grey-eyed. No identical DNA, no enemies, impossible a suicide.

No fingerprints, no weapons, and all the blurry feeling, like something supernatural is included here.

* * *

She knew them all. She had met them anywhere. Malls, groceries, hospitals, and even graveyards. They were all so full of themselves, living their lives at their best. She would invite them to her house, drinking a cup of earl grey tea _[his tea. His.]_, and the rest, is history.

All was a routine for her now. The muffled screams, blood drops, the torture she got on the bed... it was agonizing, but it was her obsession now. Seeing those flickers of life faded away from the grey irises, and the mark she put on them. The thirteen mark.

He once taught her how to write 'his very own awesome symbol' (even though it's just Roman numeric). She was dyslexic so it was a pure hell for her.

_"What's your favorite number?" He asked when he reached the point of exasperation._

_She blushed. "Th-thirteen..."_

_He turned to look at her and grinned. A full-out dazzling grin that was so rare coming from him._

_"You bet,"_

Blood came down trickling from the celestial bronze gashes. It'd be invisible to the mortals, so it was safe, from the cops' own minds at least.

She dug her knife and draw a line on her new victim's side _[strawberry blonde girl, cheerful, knife to her throat]_. She added two more lines to her beautiful crafting.

I

Tears started to fill her eyes. It was also an habitual thing now. All the loss, grief, shame, and regret fills her heart. The death of the innocents, and how she couldn't just stop...

III

Thirteen.

* * *

_Her._

She was sure that _she _will find out.

And she was right.

So she wasn't so shocked when people with guns and safety clothes- which in her crazed mind looked like toys now- bursted into her house.

She ran from them, just for the sake of fun. She knew that if _she _was behind this, there's no way of getting out. She didn't plan on living like this forever. She just did this for him, anyways.

The middle-aged woman watched her intently from across the table. It was the night before she received her punishment. A death sentence, no wonder. She almost didn't care for it before, but now watching the grey eyes that are watching her...

"So what's your reason behind all of this?"

She sighed. The detective had asked this question numerous times before. And she always answers the same. Him.

This time was no exception.

The female detective hit the table with such a force that she flinched. She was now furious, and her human form started to flicker. She felt the color drain from her face. It's the time to feel the wrath of the parent.

"And what do you mean," she hissed. "...by "him"?"

_Losing him makes me lost my insanity_, she thought. _And I wouldn't be losing him if there wasn't for your daughter._

But outside, she kept her mouth shut, keeping her eyes trained to her knuckles.

The woman sat back down in an exasperation. She rubbed her eyes, and opened her eyes again slowly.

"You were my daughter," she said tiredly.

She had to fought the urge of saying "No, shit Sherlock," to the dark-haired woman, but she decides to get this over.

"You were never there," she stated with a bored manner, as if it was a really old news.

_[it is.]_

The detective's eyes softened, fingers reaching out to touch her daughter. She just moved her body out of her fingers reach.

"You were never there," she repeated, much louder this time. "You weren't even preventing the bullies from hurting me. You never even talks to me once. You were ashamed of me, seeing I'm the weakest from all of your children,"

Silence.

She raised her head to meet her mother's gaze, and she was staring blankly at her face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"But he cared for me," she continued, uncaring about her mother's feelings. "I love him,"

"I know," her mother said. "But... do you think I'm taking his life on purpose to make you miserable, that you were killing... _them_ off?"

That was such a stupid question, coming from her mother. "No. And honestly, I don't even know why I killed them. It just... came,"

The woman stood up, a hard look on her face. The authority and professionalism was back on her voice again. " I take your words as the truth. You don't object that you kill them, so your death sentence will be scheduled tomorrow at 10 p.m sharp. Thank you, have a nice day,"

She turned back and exit the room, but the girl on the chair couldn't help to notice the quaver of her voice at the end of sentence, and a soft sob heard when she came out.

The next day at 10 p.m, she walked to her podium where short-ranged shooters were circling it, each with gun ready with random bullets. Athena's eyes kept trained at her daughter, searching for any kind of fear in her. None.

"Any last words before the punishment began?" she said in such a strong voice she was surprised. Here was her daughter got her death podium and she was the one who executed her.

She simply smiled, the girl in the podium with her messy appearance.

"Thank you,"

She closed her eyes, blocking her view from the shooters shooting her daughter and one bullet hitting her square on her head.

_[Hope you meet him, my daughter.]_

* * *

_Him._

The first time she saw him _again_ was, when she opened her eyes and the bright light flooded.

_"You don't have to do that, you know,"_

She grinned widely by hearing the familiar voice behind her. "What if I want to?"

She could felt him grinning so wide, and she turned back to find him there, yes, grinning, and launch herself to his arms.

_[Cabin thirteen. Thirteen months of joy. Thirteenth kill. Herself.]_

* * *

_A/N: Firstly, I just wanna say... well the boy wasn't Nico di Angelo, just had to put it because cabin thirteen was his cabin :p The girl was a daughter of Athena, smart but not street-talented. Also a little bit crazy. Oh this is also a warning for Mr. Riordan. If he killed Nico in MoA then... well._

_Review and point out my mistakes guys, and if interested, be my beta!_

-Mad


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